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Do You Believe in Ghosts 35-10-12 008 Mrs. Prine Finds a Ten-Year-Old letter in the Old, Abandoned Turner Place
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Do You Believe in Ghosts 35-10-12 008 Mrs. Prine Finds a Ten-Year-Old letter in the Old, Abandoned Turner Place
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Mrs. Prine
Do you believe in ghosts? Do you? The bell on the old square telephone jangled stridently through the big, fragrant kitchen. Mrs. Prine promptly pushed her boiling kettle of currant gel to the back of the range and tiptoed to the instrument. In the years that Mrs. Prine had been listening in on the telephone conversations of her neighbors in Rosedale, she never recovered from the guilty feeling that she should tiptoe all the way to the receiver. By the time she had reached the phone, it had rung twice. Then it wasn't for her. One ring was her summons. Probably it would be three. The doctor, Sarah Carter's baby, was due any minute now. No, it was four. The striker's number. Mrs. Prine eased the receiver off the hook with the deftness of long practice and settled her comfortable body on the high stool. She'd had her husband, John, thank you for her. She heard another receiver released then. Yes, In Lynn Stryker's voice. Nice voice Lynn had. Fresh and clean cut, like the girl herself. The answering voice was a man's, and into his first word, Lynn was crowded. Such eagerness that Mrs. Prine blushed a little. Mercy sakes, she told herself, it's like seeing two folks kiss each other to hear Todd Russell say Lynn over the telephone. There was a breathless little silence on the line. Then Lynn said, todd, I asked you not to call anymore. Please, dear, I. I can't stand it. No. Oh, Lynn, listen, I. I've been thinking and planning all night long. I won't. I can't take this insane decision of yours as final. I can't give up all that I've ever wanted in life because of some chaotic notion of yours. Listen, darling, I've got to see you again. There isn't any time to waste. Lynn, I. I go tomorrow back to Canada for three whole years. Don't. Don't you realize that? Three years. I came to take you back with me and I won't be put off. Please, Lynn. Please see me once more. The girl's voice was low and strained, and Mrs. Prine knew there were sobs tearing at it. Todd, we've been over all that so many times. Believe me, I. Please believe me. I'd rather. Rather spend five minutes with you than a year anyplace else in the world. But I daren't see you again. It would. It would break my heart. I can't go with you, Todd. I can't ever go with you until I know I'm free. And I may never know. Quietly, Mrs. Prine hung up her receiver and musingly returned to her current jowl. John wasn't. Lynn Stryker promised to young Bert Turner before he went to France. John Prine looked up from his noonday dinner. Well, Mother, living as you do with a lawyer, you've at last learned the trick of verbal accuracy. Promise to is just what Lynn Stryker was, I guess. Never thought she had much to do with it herself. Her father borrowed $5,000 from young Bert to save his hardware business, which doesn't appear to have justified the trouble. And I drew up the note for them. Lynn was long that day. He paused maddeningly and smeared a fluffy biscuit with currant gel. John Prine, you go right on now. John twinkled at her. Poor mother. Since old lady Turner died and the company disconnected their telephone, you've been having a hard time keeping up with the fifth party on our line, haven't you? Mrs. Prine smiled good humoredly. Well, I never expected to hear much when the bell rang five times anyhow. She was a close mouthed old vixen, that Turner woman. Except when Lin called her to ask her how she was. Nothing much ever happened worth hearing. But do go on, Pa. About the day Bert lent the money. Well, that was about all. Except that Lynn said just as they were going, I'd like Mr. Prine to be a witness to my promise to you, Burke, since you say I'm the only security you'll accept, I want him to hear me say I'll marry you if dad can't pay back this money. John helped himself to another biscuit. Course Dave Stryker never paid it back. But before the note fell due, Bert Turner went to France and he never came back. Mrs. Prine picked up the plates. Funny thing that his mother never did get the notification he was dead. And she never wasted a chance to hold it over Lynn's head, though, that he was just lost and might come back any day. I've heard her say a thousand times over that phone, you're still bound by your promise to my boy Lynn Striker. Don't forget. I always thought she was jealous of Lynn, that she hated her, wanted to make her feel as indebted as she could. She was a mean old woman, Bert's mother. The afternoon sun lay hot on Mrs. Prine's broad back as she scrambled along the brook bank picking blackberries. One pail was full now and the other was heavy with the velvety black fruit. One more good patch and she'd go home. She looked up. Why, she was just opposite the old Turner place. There was a big BlackBerry vine just back of the house. She could fill her bucket, get a cool drink from the old well and rest a bit on the kitchen steps. As she sat down on the mossy old steps, the house behind her was very still. There hadn't been a soul in it since old lady Turner's funeral. On impulse, Mrs. Prine rose and tried the door. It gave, and before she had time to think, she was in the kitchen. Ooh, mercy. Musty in here. Bet it ain't had a good errand since the old lady died. Why? Why, the phone's still here. Hmm. Just disconnected, I guess. What's this say? This is a phone. Five party line. Answer five bells after Bert went. She didn't have to answer it much, only when Lynn called her. Lynn? Well, for mercy sakes, why, that's why she won't go away with Todd. Why, she's afraid Bert will come back to make her keep her promise. Well, for mercy sakes. Then. Through Mrs. Prine's bewildered realization, the telephone jangled sharply. 1. Automatically, Mrs. Prine tiptoed toward it. 2. Somebody calling the store. 3. The doctor. Ah, the Carter baby. 4. Todd Russell call in Lynn Stryker. 5. The Turner call. Mrs. Prine's fingers were cold and wet as she lifted the receiver from the hook. For a second there was a strange windy whistling over the wire. Mrs. Prine felt sharp prickles of goose flesh along her spine. She tried to speak, to answer, but her tongue thickened until her throat was stopped. The whistle was forming itself into something else. Not a voice, but a whisper. A thin, reedy whisper that seem to be repeating something over and over. Lynn. Oh, Lynn. Mother's desk. Lynn. Lynn. Mother's Des. At the tall black walnut desk in the parlour, Mrs. Prine offered a trembling little prayer that she was doing the right thing. A strange urgency seemed to possess her hands as she opened this desk whose interior she never had seen before. Unerringly, these hands lifted the thick blotter from its paddle and laid hold on an envelope addressed to Bert Turner's mother, postmarked 10 years before. A narrow official looking envelope from the United States War department. Without hesitation, Mrs. Prine tucked it into the bosom of her dress and started down the hill toward Lynn. Strikers. The Prines sat late in the glorious moonlit coolness of their front porch. That evening from the tree bordered street, a man's happy laugh came to them. Across the lawn through the dark they saw a girl's slim white figure, broken abruptly at the waistline by a man's dark coat sleeve. Kinda sounds like Lynn Stryker. And Todd Russell, said John Prine. He's a happy man tonight, I guess. Mother came in to see me just before I left the office this afternoon. Told me he was a getting married to Lynn tomorrow morning, taking her back to Canada with him. Said she'd heard this afternoon from the War department that Bert Turner's dead. Seem pretty set up over it. Mrs. Prine's voice was very soft. Well, they're pretty gone on each other, John. I've heerd em over the phone. Now, now, Mother. Now you stop that listening in over the telephone. You'll never hear anything meant for you. You'll never hear anything that'll do anybody any good. And in the cool dusk, Mrs. Prine smiled serenely. Do you believe in ghosts? Do you.